Sheets of rain pummeled the roof of the car as our Lyft driver avoided yet another manhole cover belching its contents into the growing lake on the BQE. The water had risen to halfway up the wheels of the cars around us and ahead I could see a streaky trail of tail lights leading up towards LaGuardia, “I hope this isn’t an omen.” I pondered vaguely.

All Photos Throughout by Daghan Perker

We were on our way to SBT GRVL, America’s biggest gravel race with no vowels. Set in Steamboat Springs, CO, the race consists of Black, Red Green and Blue courses that range from 36 miles (Green) to 142 miles (Black). We were going for the Black course.

Since its creation in 2019, SBT has enjoyed a meteoric rise to become one of the country’s premier gravel events. Though not formally part of the newly formed Lifetime Grand Prix Series, the race still attracts absolutely top bin talent and has captured the hearts of pros and amateurs alike. In fact, TBD has a history of heading out to CO for the race and this year it would be me (Ben) racing along with legends Matt, Dana and Baker.

Some quick facts about the black course for ya. The route is 142 miles long with approx 10,000 feet of vert (that’s 230km and 3000m for the euros) Steamboat Springs sits at 6,700 feet (1828m) but the race takes you up to 8500 feet (~2500m). In other words, the kind of elevation you would usually want to take time to acclimatize to. Naturally, we arrived on the Friday afternoon before the Sunday morning start.

I’ve always wondered how I’d fare in one of these big gravel races and particularly at SBT. It’s a punishing course but, as they say, it’s a “roadie’s” course— largely, smooth roads and not technical. If you’re good at putting your head down and burying yourself for hours, you might do well here. I suppose that’s the promise these events deal in— the prospect of testing yourself on a level playing field against the very best in the discipline. (And who knows, maybe you have world-beating talent that had hidden inside you until the very moment that the race begins??) I don’t think I was so delusional as to think I could win. But top 50? Maybe. Getting to stick with the front group for a while? Perhaps. That’s the amateur dream. The Tuesday night bowling league world cup.

So it was with that in my heart that I approached my training. In the weeks leading up to the race I had carefully made the most of my amateur’s hours to train. I gradually dialed up my volume on weekends along with Matt and Baker until we were basically gone most Sundays, I diligently introduced my gut to unprecedented levels of carbs and I carefully scraped off any extra weight to eke out those last few picowatts per kilo. Just days before the race, my Training Peaks fitness ticked over one hundred for the first time. I was just about as ready as a person can be and still I had absolutely no idea what I was in for.

Note, massive thanks to my wife, Tiff, for supporting my absence on the weekends, my boniness and my absolutely lethal carb-induced gas. Big up.

So there we are, Matt, Baker, Dana and I, the night before race day, shaken out, breathing a little harder than usual and trying to squeeze in that last few carbs before we turn in. There was only one thing left to do.

“Let’s watch Road To Paris.” Matt suggests

“The 2001 Lance Armstrong US Postal documentary?” We all answer as one.

“The very same.”

Race Day

We rode down the mountain in the dark and staged about 40 minutes before the start. We were quite well placed, maybe 10 “rows” from the front. The energy was fun and nervous. People milled to and fro, shifting their bikes, clambering over the barriers and occasionally darting off to use the port o potties. All the while the commentary team chattered away, building the tension and listing the names that had come to race “Keegan Swenson… Tiffany Cromwell… Lachlan Morton…” All the hitters were here. Then, at exactly 6:30, the horn sounded and sent us off into the high desert plains. It was time to race our bikes.

The first hour was fucked. (Later, we learned that Keegan had attacked at mile 7, but none of us were anywhere close to the front to bear witness to it.) We had all agreed amongst ourselves that we wouldn’t go too deep too early, having come straight from sea level. We weren’t sure what the altitude would do to us deeper into the race. That said, in that first hour, you had to go crazy hard just to stay with the group. Our power was barely lower than it would be in a 75-minute crit. For myself, I had planned to start by eating solid food but it was immediately clear that I would not be removing my hands from the bars for a while so I had to settle for furiously guzzling gels whenever it was safe.

The start at SBT is a 2-mile stretch of paved road to take you out of town before you hit the first gravel section. I will say that the initial road section and the first half hour of gravel were a little sketchy. 900 people spread out across the road, all jockeying to get to the front. There was a crash right next to me on the first rise. Rattled, I drifted back a bit because I was hesitant to absolutely jam it down the descents to get to the front.

After 20 minutes, the front group was gone and the race was shattered. Chase groups started to form. Around this point, we hit a section that the organizers had warned us about where a local landowner had laid down thick, loose gravel on a downhill. It was like riding through sand at a cyclocross race where you just sort of follow your wheel and hope for the best… except you’re going like 40mph… and surrounded by other people… and the sand is rocks.

Eventually Baker, Matt and I found each other in what we later learned was “chase group 4” which contained Sofia Villafañe (the eventual women’s winner). After the first gravel sector, which lasts about 30 miles, we came out onto the tarmac for a short while before cutting back through a hay field for an impromptu bit of CX. This made for sapping riding and I was worried I was going to rip my derailleur off. I think it was after this point that Baker sidled up to me and let me know that his tyre was losing pressure. My lactate-addled brain offered him some kind of faint consolation, “oh no!” or something. This was also the start of Baker’s Very Bad Day of Mechanicals.

The first serious climb arrives at around mile 40; it’s a 4-mile, 9%, gravel situation that goes from 6.5k to around 9.5k (don’t check the math on that.) Matt and I made a pact that we wouldn’t go too hard given that there was still 100 miles to go. Even so, we were pleasantly surprised to find that we were one of the first over the top from our group. Cresting the hill, I really did start to notice the altitude “I’m breathing heavily but it’ll pass… ok I’m still breathing heavily… ok STILL…” It was taking me about 10 minutes to finish every bite of Clif bars because I needed to breathe so hard.

We looked around and assessed that Baker was nowhere to be seen, this was where we parted ways with him. (It turned out that a rock had knocked his valve core loose and he would spend the rest of the day re-inflating his tyre every 30 minutes until a mechanic would tell him at mile 120 that this was not a big deal and fixed it for him on the spot.)

For the next few miles, Matt and I rode along a long section of bare plateau, which was beautiful and then… BAM out of nowhere— singletrack. The singletrack consisted of a fairly straightforward jeep trail. What made it tricky was that it was covered in a thick layer of fine, powdery dust. Right as we entered the track, the guy in the tyre trail to my left slipped and came careering across my path. I had to hop onto the grassy verge and ride around him. We ripped through this section and then into the woods where we crossed a creek. Out of the woods, we sprinted back onto the gravel where I caught sight of teammate Daghan who was out shooting the race. We saw a lot of him in the first few hours and it was such a boost every single time we heard a ‘Fuck yeah TBD!’.

After the singletrack, everything had completely split. I had found a group of a few guys and I was sure that I wouldn’t see Matt again but he popped up almost immediately once we were back on the tarmac. This ends our first chapter of chaos, lactic burn and large groups. The next chapter was just beginning: a lonesome journey across the desert to the edges of ourselves. It was time to hit the road.

Situation update: Matt and I are in a group of around six that consisted of us, a tall guy named Madison, two guys on a Boulder team sponsored by Enve (remember these guys) and The Man In Black. Baker is nowhere to be seen and there is a group of maybe 10 guys 30 seconds up the road who we can see.

We are 30 seconds down on a big group, 100 miles from the finish and the Enve guys + The Man In Black immediately start playing games. They won’t pull through, they attack our group they leave big gaps. I truly don’t understand what they were up to. This goes on for maybe 20 miles with Matt and I getting increasingly irate. We adopt a sort of good cop bad cop dynamic with Matt telling them to pull through, them telling him to literally “fuck off” and me asking them about their lives and racing in Boulder. Meanwhile, The Man In Black does nothing. He is the wind. Silent, stoic and uncooperative. He doesn’t respond to Matt’s jabs nor does he say anything when I talk to him. Suit yourself, guy. Eventually we all just fall into a silent grind.

After some time, we pass through this long section of arid, twisty, loose, mostly downhill gravel through some foothills. It’s a lot of bumps and very pedal-intensive and my lower back really starts to give me trouble. (Meanwhile, we drop the Enve guys which I guess sort of gives credence their claims of being too tired to work.) We come out onto the road again and are caught by a large group that had been chasing us. At this point we’re around 80 miles in and still really hammering. I find Matt and let him know that my back hurts a bit by which I mean my back is fucked and if I can’t figure out a way to give it some respite I might DNF.

Fortunately, respite came. Unfortunately, it came in the form of the temperatures soaring. The run-in to the third aid station at mile 94 is 15-20 miles of heavy gravel over identical, rolling hills that just go on and on. The mercury started to climb, the pace dropped and guys started to implode left and right. This was fantastic news for my back and terrible news for my everything else. Our group became lycra-clad zombies, roving the landscape in search of water and watts. I let Matt know that I was concerned that a blow up might be coming at the same time he told me that he was going to get dropped soon. We were incredibly well matched all day. Somewhere along this stretch The Man In Black attacked and rode away which was chill.

We finally arrived at the third rest stop with two other guys for our one planned stop of the race. I still had a little water in my 2.5L pack and two full bottles so I was actually doing well from a water perspective (remember this). We quickly grabbed cokes and ice. I rinsed my head under some water and when I looked up Alex Howes was standing right next to me. “You’re Alex Howes.” I say “Yes.” he says “This course is fucked.” I say “Yes.” he says again, “I almost rode that frame.” I say jabbing at his yellow Supersix. I didn’t hear his response I just jumped in my bike and rode off. We are now entering my dark part of the race.

Like I said, the run up to that third aid station is several miles of draggy climbing. What follows is 7 miles of increasingly steep climbing. What this means is that the aid station is halfway up a 20 mile climb, you just don’t really notice it until after you leave. I really started to come apart on this bit and I feel like I owe Matt for not dropping me here.

Matt set a steady tempo for most of the climb and it was all I could do to stay on. He actually started to distance me at one point but a combination of me digging deep and (I think) Matt slowing down, kept me on. Somewhere after the first couple of miles of climbing I settled into a rhythm and started to feel a tiny bit better. “Almost there right?” Asked Matt. I looked down, at my Wahoo “four miles to go” I responded. “What the FUCK??” says Matt.

We just kept chipping away the one of the guys we were with started to get gapped a little, the other guy (a Brit!) stuck with us. The climb was mostly pretty steady 3-5% stuff but the last mile kicked up like a parabola. I could see it ticking closer on my computer screen. When we reached it, the three of us we were on our hands and knees. “Let’s just coast for a bit” we all agreed as we passed over the high point of the course. Yes fucking please I thought. To my dismay, Matt and the other guy started to rip it down the descent, I got gapped and had to make a big effort to get back on. “So much for fucking coasting” I shot at Matt when I caught up.

The next 10 or so miles were fast and downhill. This leads me to the next key moment in the race. Remember how I said I was good on water? Well, I finished my water pack going up the climb and drank maybe a third of my first bottle. On the long descent, I hit a pothole and my second bottle quivered, squirmed out of its cage and then… flopped flaccidly onto the side of the road. It was now 100 degrees and I had gone from feast to famine in the space of a few miles. Ok new plan. I’d need to hit the next aid stop for more water and then hope that they had bottles left that I could take at the little water stop 15 miles from home.

After the long descent, we passed through the town of Oak Creek, went up a paved climb and went down again, and I don’t remember much about this part of the race. We pulled into the aid stop and I grabbed water and as much Coke as I could drink. The volunteers poured ice down my jersey. “Ice for the pros!” The woman exclaimed (which I admit, even in my dehydrated state, felt good). I also ditched my water pack here since it was now only serving as a heating jacket. We left the stop in no more than 60 seconds but our British friend had gone on ahead. I felt sure we’d catch him but we never did. I felt bad for that since it was my fault we had to stop in the first place. We are now starting the third and final chapter. Survival.

Situation update: Matt and i have ridden about 120 miles, it’s 100 degrees and I have lost a bottle. We are both sleepy.

The next 20 miles were a bit of a haze. We rode steadily and offered each other encouragement. Matt offered me water when I needed it. “I’m about to get dropped” we said to each other at the exact same time, many times. He was a true teammate throughout.

Finally, we arrived at the corkscrew. The last climb of the day. It’s only short but only short isn’t good enough after 130 miles. We dragged our sorry asses over the top, Matt later noted that I was breathing in a way he had “never heard before”. All that was left now was a nice, easy descent into steamboat. SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER: here comes the most technical descent of the day, Cow Creek. Wash boarded, twisty, loose downhill with rocks the size of softballs scattered around. When I got to the bottom, both of my legs were cramping from standing on the pedals. I don’t think I’ve ever ridden through so many cramps in one day.

The last 5 miles were not the vibe. Rolling, windy, perishingly dry. Like riding into a hair dryer. My mouth was dry as a bone and my blinking had become… audible. “We can make it under 7 hours.” Matt said with 2 miles to go. “This is the speed I can go at.” was my response.

A long straightaway leads you to the outskirts of town. The texts from Tiff to our group chat — “They’re almost here” — started coming through on my computer screen. We took a right turn into the hoarding, and passed a guy, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

6:58:07. 49th and 50th place. Matt and I rode down the finish straight hand in hand. We crossed the finish line, an hour behind Keegan, two minutes under 7 hours, a minute ahead of the women’s leader, Sofia.

We did the whole holding each others helmets and leaning on the bars. Then we found a curb sat down and cried for a bit, the whole thing was so overwhelming. Coming back to the “real world” after a race can take a second. For the last seven hours you’ve been focusing on nothing and everything. Suddenly everything is loud and present. I wanted to quit so many times but Matt kept me going throughout the whole thing. We were already close; but seven hours of racing SBT together was a new level of friendship. Tiff and Daghan found us and got swept up in the emotion, too.

After we had pulled ourselves together we waited for Dana and Baker who regaled us with tales of their own days. Both are incredible for the way they overcame all kinds of adversity— mechanicals, illness, dehydration — to finish in really impressive times. I could not be more grateful to Tiff for carefully taking our bikes away, giving us water and generally dealing with all of our zombie brains and talk of chamois butter.

We hydrated, we ate, we gingerly rode the 3 miles home under the setting sun.

I’m sitting in my office 15 floors above 9th ave in Manhattan, reflecting on SBT. I’m showered and hydrated and I haven’t eaten synthetic sugar goop in at least 48 hours. The weekend already feels like another lifetime. Participating in this event was very special. Obviously top 50 was a goal and achieving that was nice but what I didn’t expect was how deep I would have to go and what I would find at the bottom of myself. I’m so proud of how we all rode— hell, I’m proud of every finisher. It’s a beautiful thing to sit on Yampa Street leaning over the barriers watching people roll in, from Keegan down to the folks trying gravel for the first time. Everybody looks so empty and so full. If there’s one thing that’ll bring me back next year, it’s that… although I might need a couple of days before I make that decision.